Corbenic (2 page)

The dark-haired man, sitting down, said quietly, “Have you any idea where you are?”

Cal felt annoyed. Then he remembered the station sign. “Corbenic.”

The man said something to his friend. The bigger one nodded, and looked up. “You must go on to the Castle.”

“Castle?”

“Hotel. About a mile on.”

The wind blew Cal's hair into his eyes. “Great,” he muttered sourly. But he was immensely relieved.

There was a splash as if the fishermen had dropped the nets over the side. “There's nowhere else,” the deep voice said. “This is the Waste Land. Nowhere else for miles.”

Uneasy, Cal said, “Do they get many visitors?”

“Not so many as they used to.” The flashlight flickered over Cal's face. “Tell them we sent you.”

Rain spattered. “Thanks,” Cal yelled. But as he turned away the other man, the dark one, said, “Wait!” He looked up; Cal saw even at this distance that he was pale, almost gaunt, his eyes dark hollows. “Are you sure you're ready?” he whispered, his voice anxious, deeply troubled.

“What?”

“You need to be ready. Or it will be a long journey for all of us.”

Cal frowned. “I thought your mate said about a mile?”

The fisherman shook his head, almost sadly, and the flashlight went out. “So he did. So he did.”

Uneasy, Cal climbed back up onto the track and trudged on. He felt worn out and it was hard to think. A hotel. Lucky. He might be miles from Chepstow. His uncle wouldn't come. And his mother would be down at Murphy's by this time anyway, and be past caring either way.

He was so wet now he didn't care about the jacket or the drenched boots; rain trickled into every crease of him, even his pockets, and his clothes felt heavy and sopping. He was almost running down the dark leafy tunnel of the lane.

And finally, around the bend, the hedge became a wall, a high red-brick wall smothered with glossy wet ivy, the trees behind it black and ominous. He squelched alongside it, seeing how the track was a mire of mud here, and at the muddiest place of all he found a wooden door, and above that a sign that swung and creaked and dripped on his face.

CASTLE HOTEL

CORBENIC

The letters were worn, and rain-streaked. Below them, cracked and badly painted, was the pub sign, but instead of a castle all it showed was a crooked yellow chalice. And hanging from that on rusty hooks, swinging so wildly he could barely make it out, a tiny addition read:

VACANCIES

Chapter Two

A sorry figure in a court so distinguished as that.

Peredur

T
here was nothing to knock, but his groping fingers found a latch under the dripping screen of ivy; he lifted it, and the door opened. Beyond the arch was a shadowy garden, blackened by frost. Bare branches dripped onto a gravel path. The trees were dead or leafless.

Cal stepped through, holding the door open. It didn't look promising, and it was too quiet. Maybe the place was closed up. Out of season. Maybe they were all in bed.

He let the door swing behind him with a soft clink. He'd find out. There was no way he was walking back up that lane.

The gravel crunched under his feet. On each side of the dim path small statues peered from among the withered plants: peculiarly crouched animals, bears and cats and tiny foxes whose eyes gleamed fleetingly in wet faces. He passed them quietly, choked with an odd feeling of excitement. The rich stink of the clotting leaves seeming sharper here, the watching animals tense, as if ready to pounce on his back. It made him remember a picture in a book he'd seen when he was small, of a garden of sleeping princes all tangled in thorns, and beyond them, high and gray and sinister, the walls of the castle, with one light in a high window. He had forgotten it till now. For a second, he remembered how the story had made him feel, the flavor of it.

There was a light here too. It flickered through the branches; he had to bend down and peer ahead to see it, because the trees were so tangled and low, and for a moment he thought it was a bundle of burning wooden sticks in a bracket on the wall. But pushing through the stiff branches he found that the trees grew right up to the stonework and at the path's end was a black wrought-iron lantern with a dim electric bulb inside.

Above him the house was a shadow. He couldn't even make out what it looked like, except that it was big, and old, and ivy covered the walls. Over the door a sort of mock portcullis jabbed its pointed spikes down at him. There was a porch, littered in the corner with heaps of windblown leaves and, at last, a bellpull with a heavy, faceted knob, swinging in the wind. Cal caught it in his numbed fingers; water dripped from it, cold as ice, the night silent around him. For a moment he stood there, undecided, afraid of the place, of who might be there.

Then he pulled the bell. It jangled deep inside the building. Lights came on; they flooded his face and he saw the panels of the door were stained glass, a rainbow patchwork of knights and horses, their heraldry bright with golds and blues and scarlet. Upstairs windows lit; he heard voices, the sound of some sort of horn or trumpet, the rattle and clatter of dishes. For a moment he almost felt he had wakened the place from a centuries-long sleep; then he noticed the stone at the end of the bellpull in his hand was as red and glittering as a ruby, and stared at it in amazement.

The door opened. Warmth came out and embraced him; for a second the relief of that was so great he couldn't speak. A woman stood there, tall and gray-haired, wearing a long dress of some rich velvet. “Welcome to the Castle,” she said gently.

He had his speech all ready. “I'm sorry to bother you so late, but . . .”

The woman smiled and stepped back. “Please! You're soaked, and cold. Come inside. It's too evil a night to be on the road.”

“I haven't . . . I mean I just need to use the phone. Do you have a phone?”

“Yes. We have everything you need. Come in.”

He followed her over the threshold, into a hall panelled with dark wood. It was dazzlingly lit with expensive-looking marble lamps. A huge round table stood in the hall's center, with some sort of sword on a stand; on all the walls red brocade wallpaper glowed, and in a vast hearth between two suits of armor a log fire roared and crackled.

Classy, Cal thought. He eased the dripping rucksack off and dumped it on the floor. He felt cheap and wet and thoroughly out of place.

“While you call,” the woman said kindly, “I'll have your room made ready.”

A room! Cal stared, alarmed. “Oh no! I mean, I won't be staying. I'm just going to get someone to pick me up.”

She shook her head. “From here? I doubt it.”

“My uncle will. Well . . . how far are we from Chepstow?”

“As far from there as from anywhere, I'm afraid.” The woman knelt and put another log on the fire carefully, the wide sleeves of her dress slipping back to show strong arms. She looked up at him. “This is the Waste Land. But the room won't be expensive, if that's what worries you. You're our guest, and there's no charge.”

That really scared him. Nothing, absolutely nothing, ever came free. Whatever sort of weird setup he had wandered into here had to be dodgy. Phone, then get out, he thought.

As if she guessed the woman stood, wiping her fingers on a lace-edged handkerchief. “There's the phone.” She nodded behind him. It was an old-fashioned sort of booth in the corner of the corridor.

Cal said, “Thanks,” and headed for it quickly.

A door opened and closed somewhere in the building; he heard music and a rumor of voices, shut off, instantly.

The booth had no door and smelled of lavender. When he'd picked up the receiver and turned the woman had gone, so he dialed his uncle's number quickly. It was an ancient bakelite machine, black and heavy with a silver dial that spun with a satisfying purr, the words CORBENIC 301000 printed in the center.

There was a crackle, the ringing tone. Then, oddly small and distant, his uncle's voice. “Hello?”

“Uncle Trevor? It's Cal.”

“Cal? Where are you?” He didn't sound anxious. More surprised. “Is your train in early?”

“No. Look . . .” Cal took a deep breath, hating himself. “I made a mistake. I got off at the wrong stop.”

He heard his uncle's hiss of annoyance. “How on earth did you manage that! Where are you?”

Cal ignored the first question. “Somewhere called Corbenic.”

“Never heard of it.”

“No. I think it's sort of out in the sticks. The last station I remember before it was Craven Arms, but . . .”

“
Craven Arms!
That's about three hours' drive!”

Cal scowled. He felt a total fool, and suddenly knew what was coming. When his uncle spoke again he sounded even more distant, as if he'd stepped back. He was also brisk and matter-of-fact. “It's far too far for me to pick you up. I'm going out later anyway. You'll have to stay over. Where are you ringing from?”

“A hotel. The Castle. But I . . .”

“Is it all right?”

“What do you mean?”

“For heaven's sake, Cal! Is it decent? How many stars has it got?”

He had no idea. Wearily he looked around at the paneled hall, the crackling fire. “It's posh. It'll cost an arm and a leg.”

“Don't pay more than forty pounds for the night. Have you got that much on you? If not, get them to phone me in the morning and I'll settle it by credit card, but I warn you, Cal, I'm not making a habit of this.”

“No,” Cal said tightly. “Neither am I.”

“Keep to yourself. Don't talk to strangers.”

“I'm not a kid.”

“Well then, be discreet. Don't make a fool of yourself. And for God's sake get the right train in the morning and call me from the station.” He sighed, sourly. “I'll ring Annie.”

“She'll be at the pub,” Cal said, reluctantly.

“Yes. I know what state she'll be in too.” His uncle's voice was rich with distaste. “To be honest I don't suppose it's worth bothering. She probably won't even remember you're gone.” The phone went dead with an irritated click.

“And good night to you too.” Cal dropped the receiver and stared blankly at the paneled wall. Out of nowhere, loneliness flooded him like a wave. For a moment he knew with devastating clarity that no one in his family knew where he was or even cared that much. Trevor didn't want him. It went through him like a coldness. Like shock.

“Your mother will be concerned.”

He turned quickly. The man watching him was sitting in a chair; that was Cal's first thought. Then he realized it was a wheelchair. The man was watching him closely. “Won't she?”

“No.” Cal came out of the booth. “She's not bothered.”

“I see. But you found my castle. I told you it wasn't far.”

The fisherman. The dark man in the boat. It was him. Close up he was younger; his hair a little too long, his knees covered in a warm tartan rug. But his face was still drawn, as if some secret pain consumed him.

“Your castle?” Cal said quietly.

The man's smile was brief. “I should have said so but it wasn't a ploy for custom, I assure you. There really is nowhere else for you to go.” He held out a frail hand. “My name is Alain Bron.”

Cal shook hands awkwardly. “Cal. Well, everyone calls me Cal. Look, I'm sorry, but I am going to have to stay here tonight.”

The dark-haired man nodded gravely. “Of course you are. Everyone always does.” His green eyes watched Cal so intently Cal felt hotly self-conscious. The old worries came flooding up; his clothes, his accent. He must look cheap. As if he couldn't pay.

But Bron only said, almost to himself, “You are the one, aren't you.” He was trembling.

A door opened behind them. A man wearing a peculiar, almost medieval robe trimmed with fur came out and crossed the hall, scooping up the rucksack before Cal could move. Bron put his hands to the wheels of the chair and turned it with an effort. “The gatekeeper here will show you your room. Relax, refresh yourself; you're my guest. A bell will ring for supper.” Painfully, he wheeled himself away.

Cal followed the man up the great curving stairs and along a lavish corridor hung with red velvet. Forty pounds a night? No chance. The place was huge, maybe four star. And full, by the sound of it. They passed rows of closed doors; one was ajar and as they crossed the opening Cal saw a vast bed draped in crimson damask, tapestries hanging on the walls.

The gatekeeper was looking back. “This way, sir,” he said. At the end of the corridor he opened a door and carried the rucksack inside, as carefully as if it was made of some precious metal. Cal stepped past him, amazed. A four-poster bed filled this room too, and as he turned he saw gilt mirrors and another log fire, and a small bathroom, its carpet deep and soft.

“Please ring if you need anything at all.” The man made an elegant half-bow.

“Wait!” Cal turned. “Listen. Do I have to . . . dress up for supper?” He would have given anything not to have to ask.

“Not at all, sir. Come as you wish.”

“And this place. Does it really belong to . . . Mr. Bron?”

“He is the King.”

“Has he had some sort of accident?”

It was nosy, but the man didn't blink. Instead he looked grave. “The blow that struck him down devastated us all and all our lands and all the world. But I think you have given him—given us all—great hope. Will there be anything more?”

“No. Thanks.” He had no idea what any of this meant. Were they that desperate for customers? For a confused moment he knew he should give some sort of tip, take a handful of coins out of his pocket like they did in films, and press something into the man's hand, but it would be too embarrassing and he didn't know how much and anyway, the man was gone.

Wearily, Cal went and sat on the bed, head in hands. He felt shaky and almost sick with hunger. And cut off, somehow, from everything, everyone, as if he'd stepped through some invisible barrier into a totally other place. He didn't belong here. But after a minute he made himself get up and go into the bathroom. The bath was huge; gold taps reflected his face. He turned the hot tap on and watched the water gush out, steaming. The roar of it cheered him. He'd always dreamed of staying in a luxury hotel. So why not make the best of it.

Later, warm and dry, wearing his favorite clothes—there had even been a little iron to get the creases out of his chinos—he sat by the roaring fire and leaned his head back in the comfortable chair. There was no minibar, but some hot sweetish drink with lemons in had been waiting on the table; he sipped it now, its warm fruity flavors. Slowly, he grinned. The station had been a nightmare, and the walk . . . well, all right, he'd got the creeps, but this—this was great. This was living. At home the flat would be empty like every night, and cold, because the two-bar electric fire would be off. There'd be no cooking smells, no TV. Only the old wooden clock in the dirty room, ticking. And next door's baby wailing.

No one could blame him for going. He'd had it since he was a kid, getting his own food, washing his own clothes, sorting himself out for school. It would do her good, anyway, to have to manage for a bit, to have to get herself together. It was over for him now. He was never going back. Never.

A sound made him look up. Repeated, it rang through the corridors and mysteries of the house. A sweet, silver bell.